Fic: The Problems of Need
Title: The Problems of Need
Pairing: Sherlock/ Molly
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex, general creepiness
Genre: PWP
Word Count: ~1700
Summary: She makes it difficult to not want what other people let themselves have.
Disclaimer: ACD canon is in the public domain, BBC owns this incarnation, I'm not making a dime.
A/N: Another PWP in the 'verse that started with Obscene Dreams in Rusty Beds, vaguely revolving around the same thread of plot; it's a proper series now.
The title is from Every Day I Die by Tubeway Army and was originally suggested by my ever-awesome beta/ cheerleader/ magic-summary-wizard maybe_amanda for a different fic.
Read it here on AO3
----------
Molly's gone back to London for three days to collect some things from Mycroft; he's glad to have some time alone. He thought maybe having her so close would dull his attraction to her; he usually couldn't tolerate others' company for extended periods of time. He was wrong.
People assume, just like they had with John. She blushes but doesn't deny it; he'd told her that there was no reason to volunteer a contradiction, it would attract attention. Strictly speaking, that much was true; people tended to take notice when they were forced to correct their assumptions. There's another part of him - a tiny, mutinous part - that likes when they assume. He likes the idea that he and Molly blur into a couple to the more myopic members of the populace. He likes the idea of being seen as part of a unit, as a person who is loved.
It makes being alone with her unbearable sometimes; while there were always barriers before, there's nothing to really stop him now. It was safe to watch her across a lab table; he couldn't touch, then. Now he can, and it would probably be welcome, but he can't let himself. Lover or boyfriend or partner can't ever be part of his identity.
At least, not in reality. Inside his own head, and when he's safely away from her, he can be whatever he wants. He spent most of his hateful childhood escaping into fantasy; even as an adult it helps keep him sane.
He knows it's probably a bit Not Good when he takes a pair of her knickers from the laundry basket, and even worse when he strips bare and crawls into her unmade bed. He's never done anything like it before; his cock is heavy between his legs, already filling from just the thought of it.
He likes the way she smells, now that she doesn't have the faint, persistent odour of death clinging to her. They use the same soap; he likes that their scents have a common component. She didn't have time to change her sheets before she left (she does every Sunday, like clockwork); he nuzzles into her pillow and breathes in the traces she's left behind. She showers in the morning; the pillow smells more like her hair than her shampoo.
The knowledge that the spot under his cheek is exactly where hers rests night after night, combined with knowing what he's doing is somehow wrong, sends a frisson of excitement down his spine; his cock twitches against the sheets.
He fingers the satin knickers (navy blue nylon, the waistband slightly frayed with age, her favourite pair) as he sketches a scene roughly in his mind; he's sitting on the edge of her bed, she's in front of him. He runs his hands over hips and palms her arse, the satin smooth and body-warm over pliant flesh. He pulls her forward between his spread legs, nosing the underside of her breast before drawing her nipple into his mouth.
He knows the shape of her unbound breasts now; surreptitious glances to her chest as she shuffled into the bathroom in the morning sans dressing gown have provided him with more than enough to reconstruct them in his mind. She sighs softly and buries her fingers his hair, arching into his mouth; he looks up at her to see her watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, biting down on her plump bottom lip.
She pushes him away so she can climb astride him, her knickers silky against his cock as she kisses him. She's wet already; he feels the slight catch of damp fabric as he thrusts up against the seam of her labia. He rocks his hips into the mattress; he knows he's not going to last very long at all.
He wants to please her, he wants to make her come; he fast-forwards a bit so she's lying on her back and he's hovering over her, kissing a trail from her mouth downwards, lingering again on her breasts, using his teeth, licking the fine trail of hair that runs from her navel and disappears under the waistband of her knickers.
The fabric is cool and silky against his flaming cheek when he rubs the knickers against it. It's perverted and disgusting and if she ever found out she would be horrified; he presses the white cotton crotch to his nose and inhales. Faint traces of urine and soap and sweat mix with the heady, almost-floral scent of her sex. He breathes deeply, imagining he's between her splayed thighs; a fresh wave of shame and arousal courses through him as his tongue darts out to taste. Salt and dry cotton; he closes his mouth over a section and lets his saliva soak the fabric, then sucks at it while he pictures himself closing his lips over her through the knickers.
His cock is hot and hard where it's trapped between his stomach and the bed, the head already slick with pre-come. He hopes she's too tired to change the bed when she gets back; his fantasy momentarily splinters into an image of her lying in the very same spot, masturbating to thoughts of him while he's out or in the shower or otherwise occupied, her head thrashing against the pillow as her fingers rub furiously over her clitoris, her hips thrusting against the two fingers she has buried inside herself, climaxing soundlessly with his name caged just behind clenched teeth.
He lifts himself up and shoves the knickers under his body, the satin slippery against the sheets. He thrusts against them experimentally, then circles his hips, finding just the right combination of movement and pressure.
He positions himself over top of her, his weight on his elbows; her arms come up to rest on his shoulders, her fingers stroking the back of his neck. He kisses her while he slides his prick the length of her until the head catches her entrance; she gasps as he pushes forward to fill her. He makes love to her slowly, deep as he can get inside her, grinding his pubic bone in circles against her clitoris to bring her to orgasm. She moves her arms and he pins them tight against her body, their palms pressed together and fingers entwined.
His head drops between his shoulders and he rests his forehead on her pillow as he imagines running his lips over her exposed throat, the way her voice would be soft and breathy as she moans his name. He flexes his thighs and thrusts harder, his cock catching in a fold of the knickers. The physical stimulation is barely enough, but he's close to the edge already; the very thought of what he's doing and how wrong it is making the muscles at the small of his back tense.
He's going to come in her bed on a pair of her stolen knickers; her sheets are damp from his perspiration and impregnated with his scent. His heavy breaths are quiet whines of pleasure, a mantra of Molly, oh fuck, Molly, yes, so good running through his mind.
Her knees dig into his sides as she comes, so tight and wet, milking his cock. He holds his breath through the first sharp contraction of his pelvic muscles and the clench of his arsehole, then releases it with a groan as his prick jerks violently, a thick spurt of semen soaking the knickers; he shivers as the tip of his cock slides through the slickness, adding to the mess with each pulse until he's emptied himself against her bed, inside her body.
He pants and rubs his sweaty face against her pillow, imagining it to be her cheek, his lips dragging over hers in lazy kiss. He wedges a hand between his body and the bed, clutching the knickers in place as he rolls over; he holds them up in front of him to look at the irregular shape of the dark patch - shiny with thick, wet smears of translucent white - he's left like an inkblot. He uses the knickers to clean himself up and sets them aside, the sharp odour of semen filling his nostrils.
He gives himself a few moments to imagine Molly, satiated and languorous and pressed tight against his side, her leg draped over his legs and her wet sex brushing the outside of his thigh, her arm resting on his torso, fingertips swirling through the sparse hair of his chest. He traces patterns on her skin, pebbling from the cool air of the room as the sweat evaporates off her body; they share more lazy kisses and smile into each others' mouths and he's so in love with her that it's a physical ache.
He fights the contented doze his body is trying to lull him into; he can't let himself linger for too long. He needs to let the bed air out a bit before he covers it in papers and books (he'll tell her he needed the space to lay things out so he could look at them from a different perspective) and do a load of laundry (he'll tell her he took some of her things to make a full load, she'll be tentatively overjoyed with his thoughtfulness); the faster he gets rid of the evidence, the faster he can lock the incident away in his mind and get himself back to normal.
If she knew about this, even suspected, she'd hate him. She'd leave, shuddering with revulsion every time something reminded her of him. That can't happen; he needs an assistant and he needs her -- her quiet, purposeful stoicism to balance him when the enormity of his task threatens to overwhelm him, her inappropriate humour and her beaming smiles when he says something clever.
It's another two days until she gets back; he'll need every minute of that time to harden his resolve against those moments when he looks at her and can think of nothing but pulling her close and kissing her, asking her to stay with him forever, promising to do everything to make her happy. He's not that man, won't ever let himself be, but she makes it difficult to not want what other people let themselves have.
Pairing: Sherlock/ Molly
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex, general creepiness
Genre: PWP
Word Count: ~1700
Summary: She makes it difficult to not want what other people let themselves have.
Disclaimer: ACD canon is in the public domain, BBC owns this incarnation, I'm not making a dime.
A/N: Another PWP in the 'verse that started with Obscene Dreams in Rusty Beds, vaguely revolving around the same thread of plot; it's a proper series now.
The title is from Every Day I Die by Tubeway Army and was originally suggested by my ever-awesome beta/ cheerleader/ magic-summary-wizard maybe_amanda for a different fic.
Read it here on AO3
----------
Molly's gone back to London for three days to collect some things from Mycroft; he's glad to have some time alone. He thought maybe having her so close would dull his attraction to her; he usually couldn't tolerate others' company for extended periods of time. He was wrong.
People assume, just like they had with John. She blushes but doesn't deny it; he'd told her that there was no reason to volunteer a contradiction, it would attract attention. Strictly speaking, that much was true; people tended to take notice when they were forced to correct their assumptions. There's another part of him - a tiny, mutinous part - that likes when they assume. He likes the idea that he and Molly blur into a couple to the more myopic members of the populace. He likes the idea of being seen as part of a unit, as a person who is loved.
It makes being alone with her unbearable sometimes; while there were always barriers before, there's nothing to really stop him now. It was safe to watch her across a lab table; he couldn't touch, then. Now he can, and it would probably be welcome, but he can't let himself. Lover or boyfriend or partner can't ever be part of his identity.
At least, not in reality. Inside his own head, and when he's safely away from her, he can be whatever he wants. He spent most of his hateful childhood escaping into fantasy; even as an adult it helps keep him sane.
He knows it's probably a bit Not Good when he takes a pair of her knickers from the laundry basket, and even worse when he strips bare and crawls into her unmade bed. He's never done anything like it before; his cock is heavy between his legs, already filling from just the thought of it.
He likes the way she smells, now that she doesn't have the faint, persistent odour of death clinging to her. They use the same soap; he likes that their scents have a common component. She didn't have time to change her sheets before she left (she does every Sunday, like clockwork); he nuzzles into her pillow and breathes in the traces she's left behind. She showers in the morning; the pillow smells more like her hair than her shampoo.
The knowledge that the spot under his cheek is exactly where hers rests night after night, combined with knowing what he's doing is somehow wrong, sends a frisson of excitement down his spine; his cock twitches against the sheets.
He fingers the satin knickers (navy blue nylon, the waistband slightly frayed with age, her favourite pair) as he sketches a scene roughly in his mind; he's sitting on the edge of her bed, she's in front of him. He runs his hands over hips and palms her arse, the satin smooth and body-warm over pliant flesh. He pulls her forward between his spread legs, nosing the underside of her breast before drawing her nipple into his mouth.
He knows the shape of her unbound breasts now; surreptitious glances to her chest as she shuffled into the bathroom in the morning sans dressing gown have provided him with more than enough to reconstruct them in his mind. She sighs softly and buries her fingers his hair, arching into his mouth; he looks up at her to see her watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, biting down on her plump bottom lip.
She pushes him away so she can climb astride him, her knickers silky against his cock as she kisses him. She's wet already; he feels the slight catch of damp fabric as he thrusts up against the seam of her labia. He rocks his hips into the mattress; he knows he's not going to last very long at all.
He wants to please her, he wants to make her come; he fast-forwards a bit so she's lying on her back and he's hovering over her, kissing a trail from her mouth downwards, lingering again on her breasts, using his teeth, licking the fine trail of hair that runs from her navel and disappears under the waistband of her knickers.
The fabric is cool and silky against his flaming cheek when he rubs the knickers against it. It's perverted and disgusting and if she ever found out she would be horrified; he presses the white cotton crotch to his nose and inhales. Faint traces of urine and soap and sweat mix with the heady, almost-floral scent of her sex. He breathes deeply, imagining he's between her splayed thighs; a fresh wave of shame and arousal courses through him as his tongue darts out to taste. Salt and dry cotton; he closes his mouth over a section and lets his saliva soak the fabric, then sucks at it while he pictures himself closing his lips over her through the knickers.
His cock is hot and hard where it's trapped between his stomach and the bed, the head already slick with pre-come. He hopes she's too tired to change the bed when she gets back; his fantasy momentarily splinters into an image of her lying in the very same spot, masturbating to thoughts of him while he's out or in the shower or otherwise occupied, her head thrashing against the pillow as her fingers rub furiously over her clitoris, her hips thrusting against the two fingers she has buried inside herself, climaxing soundlessly with his name caged just behind clenched teeth.
He lifts himself up and shoves the knickers under his body, the satin slippery against the sheets. He thrusts against them experimentally, then circles his hips, finding just the right combination of movement and pressure.
He positions himself over top of her, his weight on his elbows; her arms come up to rest on his shoulders, her fingers stroking the back of his neck. He kisses her while he slides his prick the length of her until the head catches her entrance; she gasps as he pushes forward to fill her. He makes love to her slowly, deep as he can get inside her, grinding his pubic bone in circles against her clitoris to bring her to orgasm. She moves her arms and he pins them tight against her body, their palms pressed together and fingers entwined.
His head drops between his shoulders and he rests his forehead on her pillow as he imagines running his lips over her exposed throat, the way her voice would be soft and breathy as she moans his name. He flexes his thighs and thrusts harder, his cock catching in a fold of the knickers. The physical stimulation is barely enough, but he's close to the edge already; the very thought of what he's doing and how wrong it is making the muscles at the small of his back tense.
He's going to come in her bed on a pair of her stolen knickers; her sheets are damp from his perspiration and impregnated with his scent. His heavy breaths are quiet whines of pleasure, a mantra of Molly, oh fuck, Molly, yes, so good running through his mind.
Her knees dig into his sides as she comes, so tight and wet, milking his cock. He holds his breath through the first sharp contraction of his pelvic muscles and the clench of his arsehole, then releases it with a groan as his prick jerks violently, a thick spurt of semen soaking the knickers; he shivers as the tip of his cock slides through the slickness, adding to the mess with each pulse until he's emptied himself against her bed, inside her body.
He pants and rubs his sweaty face against her pillow, imagining it to be her cheek, his lips dragging over hers in lazy kiss. He wedges a hand between his body and the bed, clutching the knickers in place as he rolls over; he holds them up in front of him to look at the irregular shape of the dark patch - shiny with thick, wet smears of translucent white - he's left like an inkblot. He uses the knickers to clean himself up and sets them aside, the sharp odour of semen filling his nostrils.
He gives himself a few moments to imagine Molly, satiated and languorous and pressed tight against his side, her leg draped over his legs and her wet sex brushing the outside of his thigh, her arm resting on his torso, fingertips swirling through the sparse hair of his chest. He traces patterns on her skin, pebbling from the cool air of the room as the sweat evaporates off her body; they share more lazy kisses and smile into each others' mouths and he's so in love with her that it's a physical ache.
He fights the contented doze his body is trying to lull him into; he can't let himself linger for too long. He needs to let the bed air out a bit before he covers it in papers and books (he'll tell her he needed the space to lay things out so he could look at them from a different perspective) and do a load of laundry (he'll tell her he took some of her things to make a full load, she'll be tentatively overjoyed with his thoughtfulness); the faster he gets rid of the evidence, the faster he can lock the incident away in his mind and get himself back to normal.
If she knew about this, even suspected, she'd hate him. She'd leave, shuddering with revulsion every time something reminded her of him. That can't happen; he needs an assistant and he needs her -- her quiet, purposeful stoicism to balance him when the enormity of his task threatens to overwhelm him, her inappropriate humour and her beaming smiles when he says something clever.
It's another two days until she gets back; he'll need every minute of that time to harden his resolve against those moments when he looks at her and can think of nothing but pulling her close and kissing her, asking her to stay with him forever, promising to do everything to make her happy. He's not that man, won't ever let himself be, but she makes it difficult to not want what other people let themselves have.